fic_kitty DID A STEVE/DANNY VID TO THE AVETT BROTHER'S SONG "I AND LOVE AND YOU." My fucking heart, you guys. Go tell her how fucking awesome she is, for serious.
In other news, here is...er, 2,000 words of plotless Steve/Danny fic that I wrote by accident this afternoon. Sometimes I fall in love with the words? I swear to god I'm working on stuff in which things, you know, actually happen. Title is from a willful mishearing of a line from the Florence & The Machine Song "Dog Days Are Over," because, whatever, I'm just like this, I don't know.
Title: the wild corners
Summary: Danny hovers between wakefulness and sleep and feel likes an emptied conch--worn smooth where Steve has washed over him, flush with the faint echo of all the places they've touched.
Steve swims after the hard cases, working off the burn of adrenaline and bringing the ocean to bed with him, dripping salt onto Danny's pillows. He dries himself against the line of Danny's back, rutting into him with the energy he's got left, but echoes remain; Danny's gotten used to sleeping with sand between his sheets, rough patches of it catching against his thighs. If he was the kind of man to think in metaphors, it would be a good one for Steve--he, too, is constantly under Danny's skin, irritating but familiar, a reminder of things larger than them both. As it is he leaves a hand on Steve's hip, rides the tide of his come down until he's nearly lost to the pull of exhaustion.
"That could have gone better," Steve murmurs, and Danny knows he means the case, the violence that had ended it, the things they'd had to tell the family. He sighs and rolls over, noses into that hollow space at the base of Steve's neck. It smells like the ocean, smells the way Danny's boots looked after the first snow in Jersey, stained with the white, jagged lines of the salt on the roads.
"Yeah, probably," he says, and Steve shifts at the admission, vestiges of tension slipping loose. Like always, there are things they don't need to say to mean, and Danny's sorry that Steve's so sorry, that he still can't separate it out. For all his training he's not cut out for this, for the harsh realities of facing the music; being a cop means carrying it with you, means doing the paperwork, means making the mess and cleaning it up. Steve's built for action, not reaction, and Danny coaxes him through where he can.
There's nothing to do here but wait, though, and Danny's tired too, wrung dry from the day and from the weight of Steve next to him. He closes his eyes and Steve's breath hits the shell of his ear, warm and salt-strung still, finally evening out. He hovers between wakefulness and sleep and feel likes an emptied conch--worn smooth where Steve has washed over him, flush with the faint echo of all the places they've touched.
There is a bead of sweat dripping down the side of Steve's neck, rounded out completely, a raindrop waiting to fall. It moves slowly, creeping towards his collar, the edge of his tac vest, and Danny stares because he can't exactly help himself.
This, right here, is why it's no good to mix work and play: there is a heat building under Danny's shirt that has nothing to do with the weather, and they've got a job to do. Steve's going to give the signal to breach the door in a second and Danny should be thinking about moving in hot, should be thinking about lines of sight, should be thinking about anything but following that bead of sweat down, down, all the way down.
Only Steve turns, then, a sunflare bouncing from his sunglasses to blot out Danny's world, and smiles. And if that isn't just exactly what they are--the blind leading the blinding, following each other in and out of chaos like it'll get them somewhere. Danny blinks at him, and he comes into focus with hazy, sunbent edges, thrumming already with the need to chase and catch. Danny would do stupid, staggering things for him, and narrows his eyes, blaming the sun.
"Later," Steve says, and Danny doesn't bother asking how he knows. He just reaches out, a fleeting touch to the side of his neck, rubbing the sweat dry. Steve's mouth twists, something between a grin and a grimace, and Danny carries it with him as they go in for the takedown.
Danny says Steven when he's angry and babe when he isn't, McGarrett when he's trying to be serious and Steve the rest of the time. In bed they tumble over each other, these iterations of his name, mixed in with noises Danny didn't know he could make and half-vocalized pleading he wishes he could control. Steve doesn't talk much, not when they're like this; Danny's not sure if he's too single-minded a creature to try or if it's just that he's got better uses for his tongue.
When he does speak, syllables sliding free like each one is a fight, he mostly sticks to calling Danny Danny. He must know implicitly that the words stolen from the mouth of babes have no place here, and his wide eyes and wider mouth say more than a name could anyway. When his game is off, when he's so spit slick close to coming that Danny can feel him shaking with it, other things slip out--garbled gasps and other languages, babybabybaby strung together like a prayer. He bows his head and chokes around the noise that's always between them, and Danny drinks it in, lets it fill the places he's forever emptying by running his mouth.
Today the humidity is too much, as overwhelming as Steve's hands, ghosting over Danny's tender edges like they're following a tattered map. Danny tips his head back against the pillow and submits, drawing in air that feels more like water, drowning everything he could say. Steve's mouth around his cock is an inferno, tight and sharply sweet around him, and Danny can't breathe for fear it'll eat him alive. It's too hot for this, too sticky, the inside of his thigh clinging to Steve's cheek, and Danny fucks up into Steve's mouth anyway, his fingers fisted in the sheets.
"You," he says, because he can't pick one, because there are too many versions of Steve's name and none of them mean fuck, like that, never stop. "You, I can't, I can't, you fucker, I--"
Steve hums around his dick, soothes the flat of his palm against Danny's stomach, pushes in and takes it, the way Danny's jerking up into him. And, Jesus, his eyes are on Danny's face, looking at him like he's waiting for something more than the burn of Danny's release down his throat. Danny doesn't know how to give it, the thing Steve is looking for--hasn't ever known, maybe, and isn't sure if Steve knows what he's asking anyway. He touches his hair instead, damp with sweat, and comes like his strings have been cut, collapsing.
"Quitter," Steve says, a rasp in his voice that Danny put there, something like forgiveness in the curve of his grin. Danny pulls them together, heat be damned, and tastes himself in Steve's mouth.
Danny drives because Steve's bleeding, because it's long since been agreed upon that the injured party rides shotgun. It's a little wound, nothing he can't patch up himself; Danny's learned to accept Steve's brand of medical knowledge, won from experience rather than study. He heads for the comforting familiarity of Hawaii Medical anyway, less for Steve's sake then his own, and tries not to consider the way Steve is looking at him, exasperated and fond at once.
"You're being ridiculous," he says. It's less an accusation than a lesson point, like Danny doesn't already know. Like this whole thing and all its outcroppings, all the ways Steve has sidled his way into Danny's life, isn't ridiculous on his face--like Danny has any way of helping that, like Steve would even let him try. He brakes a little too hard instead of replying, knocking Steve's shoulder into the window, and winces in sympathy at the noise he makes.
He's not used to being angry like this, this cold, calm fury, making his palms itch and his throat hurt. He's not used to rage he can't yell out, so he swallows it down, lets it rest in the pit of his stomach. He sends Steve in to the hospital by himself, because people who throw themselves in the path of stray bullets don't deserve company, and Steve rolls his eyes but goes.
The seat of his Camaro is more contoured to the shape of Steve's body then his own, these days. Danny would be bitter at that, but he's hardly got the energy for it. He explores the space as he waits, thinking about anything but what could have happened--if the shot had cut a little closer, if Steve's arm had been a little higher, if he'd ducked instead of weaved and caught it in the neck instead. Danny doesn't know much about medicine, but he knows enough; knows that it could have been arterial damage instead of a graze wound, knows what a military funeral looks like.
He tightens his hands around the steering wheel and breathes deep, willing it down, the leather of the seat wrapped around him. It's all Steve in here and all Steve out there, Steve in every angle of Danny's life, Steve no matter how you slice it. Danny's thrown his lot in with a hell-bent man, and the question of what he's gunning for is immaterial--it's always something, always going to be something. Danny doesn't know what to think about that except fuck, but it stings anyway, like the stupid bullet caught him too, lodged inextricably in a chamber of his heart.
Only then Steve's bounding out, bouncing on his heels like the wrecked ball of emotion he always is, never able to judge too much from not enough. There's gauze wrapped around his bicep, an odd mirror image of the wound Danny'd sustained on meeting him, and that feels about right; they're always cutting into each other the same ways, circling around the same inevitable point.
Steve smiles, unfettered, like he's won something, and the wild corners of Danny's mind are unwillingly soothed. The words tumble loose, a torrent of rage, and Steve takes it like he takes anything--a little contrite, a lot superior, genuine guilt lurking somewhere underneath.
"I guess I should apologize for getting myself shot, too," he says, eventually. "I thought that was just you."
Danny punches him hard in his good shoulder, and doesn't take his eyes from the road.
He doesn't realize that he's become his mother till his thumb's already on Steve's cheek; he sighs, too late to do anything about it, and doesn't bother backing off. He feels the barbecue sauce he'd unthinkingly gone after against the whorls of his finger, and he rubs at it, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"You had a thing," he says, when Steve's eyebrows go up. "Got it, though."
"Mmmk," Steve agrees, glancing back at the television. There's an empty box of wings on the coffee table, a willing concession to Danny's eating habits, and they're both lazy with the grease in their stomachs. Danny wipes his hands clean on the last napkin and relaxes back, catching Steve's profile out of the corner of his eye. There's still the faint stain of sauce there, rubbed in rather than rubbed clean.
Danny's thumb ends up there of its own accord this time, flat against the soft skin. Steve turns to him, his whole body angling; he's smiling, a slight one, the edges of his mouth crinkling up. Danny touches them, little creases that'll deepen with time, and thinks about all the ways you earn laugh lines, all the good they do.
Steve's smile mutates, goes deeper, like Danny's the funniest thing he's seen in years. Danny thinks a dangerous word; it settles over him, crawls under his skin like the sand between his sheets, drips down into his eyes like sweat. He breathes it in like thick, salted air, feels it tear into him like a stray bullet--it buries itself in those wild corners, a seed that's been growing all this time.
"Didn't get it, then?" Steve says, and he's laughing now, just a little, his good humor tangled up in the way he says the words.
"No," Danny says, "no, I got it," and Steve kisses him easy, like it's nothing, like it's no trouble at all.